


blood on the pieces you can't put back

by brookethenerd



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Meet-Cute, except its ugly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:00:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,949
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22798963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd
Summary: ‘I step out of the bathroom and right into the middle of a bar fight and you punch me accidentally so I punch back on instinct’from veronicabunchwrites 'meet-ugly' prompt list
Relationships: Steve Harrington/Reader
Kudos: 57





	blood on the pieces you can't put back

It wasn’t like you were having a good day to begin with, at a seedy bar at eleven PM on a Tuesday night, but you’d expected the quiet bar and its presumably-tame-drunk crowd to be of refuge after a long day. Not the center of a vicious bar fight.

But, as genuinely shitty nights go, you didn’t get what you expected or wanted.

You missed the break out of the fight, having run to the bathroom at the sudden and overwhelming realization you needed to pee. Having broken the seal and emptied your bladder, you washed your hands and dried them on a few too many paper towels, reveling in the dim, quiet bathroom.

Shoving the towels into the bin beside the exit, you pushed the door open just as a glass smacked the wall beside it, shattering and raining glass. You stumbled - somewhat unsteadily - in the other direction, only to push a large and burly man out of his place and taking the hit meant for him.

The thrower’s fist smashed into your face, your lip splitting open at the force, metallic blood filling your mouth, chased with pain. You didn’t even get a chance to put a face to the fist before you threw a punch at whoever had decked you, the explosive pain in your hand and the resulting groan from your target indicating you were successful.

“Jesus _fucking_ -” A boy your age doubled over and stood back up, hands pressed to his nose, blood streaming through his fingers. “I wasn’t- _agh_ -wasn’t trying to _hit you._ ” Two men, consumed in their alcohol-fueled hatred of each other, smacked into the wall between you and the boy you’d hit, and you jumped back. The boy slipped around them, fingers closing around your wrist. You narrowed your eyes at him, narrowly avoiding an elbow swinging too far out.

“Please don’t hit me again,” he said, flashing a red-stained grin, “and I’ll get us out of here.”

“Get me out of here, and I’ll consider forgiving you for punching me.”

“You punched me back!”

“You punched first!”

“On accident!”

“And I hit back on reflex!”

“Would you rather continue this here, or get the hell out of here so you can yell at me without the threat of a flying beer bottle?”

You huffed. At your lack of further protest, the boy tugged you through the bar fight, surprisingly violent considering how peaceful it had been just moments prior. You ducked for a flying beer bottle, dragging the boy away just as it shattered against the wall, narrowly avoiding the sharp splinters.

Somehow, you made it through the front door, tumbling out into the back alley and the cold night. The slamming of the metal door behind you silenced the thumping music from inside, and your head felt fuzzy, like it was stuffed with cotton balls, or you needed to pop your ears.

You bent over and spat a gob of bloody spit onto the asphalt, swiping a hand across your mouth, not surprised when it came away red. The boy, having caught his breath like you’d caught yours, touched your arm, drawing your gaze to his face.

He scanned your face, gaze lingering on the fat lip, still trickling blood, and his expression twisted like he’d bitten into something sour.

“ _Jesus_ ,” he said. “I got you _hard_.”

“Sure you’re not hiding brass knuckles somewhere?” You asked, mostly just to rub it in; the alcohol was doing its job as an unofficial painkiller, and the throbbing was manageable. He laughed, raking a hand through his hair, painting little pieces in red where he’d touched his own bleeding nose. The flow had slowed, clotting enough to stop the blood, but he had plenty dried and cracking on the lower half of his face.

“Damn,” you said, reaching up to ghost your fingers across his nose, light enough not to hurt; he stiffened anyway, but didn’t flinch, didn’t pull away. “You look like shit.”

“Because you’re looking so put together right now,” the boy retorted, cocking a brow. You couldn’t help but grin.

“Speaking of,” you said, “we should probably do something about that. It’s kind of sketchy to walk around this city at night covered in blood.”

“It’s _our_ blood,” he pointed out. You gave him a withering look, though the alcohol simmering in your blood made it hard to hold the seriousness; honestly, you were about two breaths away from giggling like a loon. You really, really hadn’t expected your night to go like this.

Maybe a few too many drinks at the bar, a few bad decisions when it came to bar patrons, and a wicked hangover the next day. Not a bar fight, a broken lip, and a bloody boy beside you.

“Alright, alright.” The boy glanced up at the street sign, brows pulling together in concentration; he was handsome, even blood covered and broken nosed. With light brown hair that was perfectly bouncy and looked delectably soft, a piercing smile, and beautiful brown eyes, plus the alcohol swirling in your blood, you were a goner.

* * *

Approximately ten minutes later, you were sat on a bench outside a small convenience store in the middle of the city, the streets quiet this time of night, save for the random passerby. A plastic bag full of ice sat between you, top ripped open, and you’d each fashioned your own ice packs out of dishcloths also purchased inside the store. You had a bundle of ice pressed to your lip, and the boy - Steve Harrington, according to his license, flashed when he dug out his wallet to pay for the supplies - had one against his nose. Next to the ice bag rested a handle of cheap liquor, already a quarter drunk by the time you sat down. The alcohol burned some of the pain away and formed a blanket against the cold.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said eventually, “For hitting you. It was an accident.” He dug a packet of cigarettes out of his pocket, pulling one out and tucking the pack away, pulling a lighter next. He gestured to the cigarette, and you nodded, taking it and placing the filter between your teeth. Steve lit it, and you took a sharp drag, exhaling slowly, breath a puff of white against the dark sky. You passed it to Steve, giving him a lopsided grin.

“You mean you weren’t just waiting outside that bathroom for some random fighting partner?”

Steve laughed, the sound muffled by the cigarette as he took a pull. He tugged it away from his mouth, pressed between two fingers. “Well, damn. You caught me. That’s exactly what I was doing.”

“Good way to make friends.”

“Worked with you,” he said, brows twitching.

“Oh, did it? Are we friends now?”

He gestured to the half-drunk bottle, the lit cigarette, and the bag of ice, lips quirking up in a grin. “Looks like it. You’re stuck with me now.”

“As long as you don’t hit me again…”

“You hit me back!”

“Out of reflex!”

He crinkled his nose, picking up the handle and taking a long swig, his shit-eating-grin somehow managing to become even more shit-eating when he put the bottle down.

“You know,” he said, “I’m kinda glad you hit me-” “You hit me first-” “-because as hard as you can hit, that guy coming after me had a fist like a fucking boulder.”

“You’re welcome, then,” you said.

“Oh, that’s not what I said.”

“Pretty much what you said.”

He groaned, sitting back against the bench. “I take it back. I’d rather have been punched by Thor.”

“Drama queen,” you quipped. He grinned, pushing forward. He shifted closer to you, knocking his knee against yours.

“If anyone had to punch me in the face tonight, I’m really glad it was you,” he said. You shifted halfway on the bench to face him, lips curling up in a smile.

“Surprisingly, I’m really glad it was you, too.”

One of his hands came up to rest on your neck, thumb on your jaw, tracing a line from your chin, up and back down. His thumb skimmed over drying blood, but he didn’t seem to mind the mess, gaze locked on your parted lips.

It was going to hurt to kiss him. You were going to do it anyway.

You pressed up on his chin with two fingers, meeting his mouth with yours, ignoring the spark of pain on your split lip. He reacted immediately, hands moving to your waist, mouth parting against yours.

His lips were soft and tasted of alcohol and something sweet, likely the leftovers of a fruity cocktail. Whatever cold remained before melts with his touch, and you thaw all at once, burning beneath his fingertips. Steve’s hands slid up your arms, tangling in your hair, drawing you closer. You didn’t even care when your lip split back open, filling both your mouths with blood, though you should have; all you cared about was Steve’s mouth on yours, his hands in your hair, the gentle jabs of his chin.

Only when the poking pain of both your injuries grew too irritating to ignore did you pull apart, both catching your breath, foreheads tipped together. You pulled back, leaning over to spit a gob of blood into the snow, and Steve laughed.

“Charming,” he said, slipping an arm around you. You leaned back against him, taking one of his hands and inspecting the scratched up knuckles, running your pointer finger across the tiny, closing scabs.

“For the record,” he said, “that doesn’t count as our first date.”

“Like hell it does,” you said. “Though, it does make for a good story.”

“Not quite a meet-cute,” he said. You shrugged. He flipped the hand you’d been holding onto, threading your fingers together, drawing your hands up to press his lips to the top of your hand.

“How does getting a drink sound? Like, a real one?” He asked. “With zero bar fights involved.”

“No bar fights?” You arched a brow, lips quirking up. “Wow. Special treatment.”

“I’ve got to prove I’m not an asshole.” At your expression, he amended, “not _that much_ of an asshole.”

You grinned and leaned in, brushing your lips against his softly, the ghost of a kiss, one that left room for more. And you planned on many, many more.

“It sounds perfect,” you said. “Long as you promise not to punch me again.”

His expression soured, and he said, “Touché.”

You laughed, and pressed his ice pack to his face, effectively shutting him up. He peered around it, eyes bright and excited, and grabbed your own pack off the bench beside him, lifting it and pressing it to your mouth.

“Weirdest first date I’ve ever been on,” you said.

“Not our first,” Steve amended. “We’ll call it a trial run.”

“A trial run that we very clearly failed?” You asked, setting down the ice pack, Steve doing the same. He grinned, shrugging a shoulder.

“I don’t know,” he said, ducking so that his lips were inches from yours, gaze flicking down to your mouth and back up. “Felt pretty successful to me.”

You tangled your fingers in his hair, drawing him to you. “Mildly successful,” you said. And when you kissed him, it was a little difficult with the split lip and the smile you couldn’t force away, but you made it work.

You kissed him, and he kissed you back, and you stayed that way until not even the alcohol and each other could keep the cold out, and even then, when you piled into the back of a cab, Steve kept your hand in his. You hoped he never let it go.


End file.
